


Companions

by ice_wraith



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_wraith/pseuds/ice_wraith
Summary: This is a re-write of a reaaaally old TES: Skyrim fic of mine... might expand upon it later.Edit: Added a prologue and an additional chapter.
Kudos: 5





	1. Prologue

The Bosmer kept low to the ground, staying out of sight from the encampments of other hunters dotting the hillside. She wanted to reach Sinding before they did -- after all, it was her patron that had sent her to retrieve the werewolf's hide, and she wanted to appease the daedra, not keen on finding out what might happen should she disappoint him.

The Bloodmoon cast an unnatural, sanguinary tint over the otherwise familiar pall of night. Its presence called to the wolf within her, the moonlight singing through her bones with a tenor that was felt rather than heard. She knew there was no question of whether it would turn her that night -- the real question was when. She did not know if any of the other hunters were lycanthropes themselves, and she did not care to approach them closely enough to find out. The mer continued to stay hidden amongst the crags of uneven ground, knowing she'd quickly become a target if the moons forced her to turn in plain sight.

Hircine had appeared to her earlier, just before sunset, a pale white stag that emerged out of the Falkreath mists with all the bearing expected of an extraplanar being. He had instructed her to murder the very man she'd helped escape from prison mere days prior. Siah remembered passing Sinding the key through the iron bars, asking nothing in return, and then distracting the guards with a lie -- she'd helped him because, like her, he was wolf, and to her it seemed only a matter of time until her secret was out, and then it would be her turn to face the consequences of it. She'd been fortunate in escaping the first time she'd been caged, and she knew she'd likely never know such luck ever again. She hoped that someday, should she ever find herself behind bars again, someone else might have the sympathy to slip her a key. 

It wasn't until days had passed, when she was out in the forest tracking game, that the Daedric Lord of the Hunt had come before her as the white stag. He informed her that Sinding had stolen an artifact from him -- a ring that uniquely benefited lycanthropes -- and that he demanded retribution for such a blasphemous act against his lordship.

She felt she had no choice but to obey him. He was her patron, the will by which she was permitted to shapeshift under the moons. She dared not risk his ire.

It was by those circumstances that she found herself that night, pursuing the trail of the other werewolf alongside a score of other hunters that no doubt vied for the attention of the Lord of the Hunt. She stalked unseen past their campsites, already smelling blood on the wind as she made her way towards the entrance of the grotto Hircine had described to her. She weaved soundlessly through the narrow crags, following the winding pathway until it opened out again into an enclosed, but vast and sufficiently wooded area. 

The heavy stench of spilt organs and arterial blood hit her throat as she came upon a small clearing. Siah knelt for a moment, closing her eyes and biting her trembling lip until it bled, forcing down the reflexive need to turn and feast. There was a carnage, here, where some foolish band of hunters had surely confronted Sinding. She could already hear more approaching from one of the camps outside, preparing for an assault back at the mouth of the grotto. She willed herself to stand, not wanting to cross paths with them, or be overtaken in her quest to obtain the other were's hide. Her wolf-self still hungered for the corpses, however, and she walked past them with her breath held, knowing that to linger there would be to lose what little control she had.

Siah rounded the corner of a narrow ravine, the pathway ahead doubling back to become a switchback up to some ruins as the incline became steeper. She kept low, wanting to move quickly but not carelessly, and readied an arrow in preparation should anything leap out at her. Her gaze skimmed the treeline and then up over the ledges, checking for any sign of movement. There was a lull in the night, and it made her uneasy.

It was then that she glimpsed her mark, perched along the cliffside, watching her. He was a tall, sinewy sort of beast, silhouetted against the Bloodmoon like an aspect of Hircine himself. Even as a wolf, she recognized him immediately, both scent and posture giving his identity away.

She wanted him to flee, so that she could surrender herself to the blind instinct of the chase. She needed the kill, she needed to taste the blood of her quarry -- but a realization gripped her suddenly, and she decided that her prey did not have to be him. He continued to look down upon her, unmoving with the hesitance of recognition, the unspoken question of whether or not she'd try to kill him now, when she'd been so quick to side with him back in Falkreath. 

His hide was darkened with gore. She met his eyes, and she remembered the man in the prison cell. She thought of how she'd smiled as she'd handed him his means of escape, saying that she understood, that any other day it might've been her. It was only a matter of time until her secret was out, too, and what then? Then it would be her turn to be chased, to be hunted, to be cornered and killed like an animal. 

She would not condemn him to the same fate that she herself feared with such vehemence. She couldn't. Not even for a Daedric Lord.

Her hands trembled, and she lowered her nocked arrow, giving the other werewolf a short and simple nod that conveyed all it needed to. She had precious few moments to turn before the rest of the hunters were upon them, but it would have to be enough. 

The light of the Bloodmoon was upon her, and she was its thrall. 

The mer began shivering and sweating with a paradoxical feverishness as the change came over her. She managed to strip herself of her armor and weapons, leaving them up near the ruins at the apex of the pathway for later retrieval should she survive the night. Sinding guarded her with a wary silence while the pain tore through her. The transformation seized her in its entirety, leaving her clawing and vulnerable against the hard ground while her form reshaped itself from the inside-out. Once her cries of agony subsided, she rolled, panting, to her feet, blessedly armed with claw and fang and hide now that the shift was complete. 

Siah looked to Sinding, and then to the moon above. Her pulse drummed in her veins. She didn't think her wolf-self had ever been so delighted upon being indulged, nor had she ever been more relieved to embrace it.

There was movement along the trees below them, and Sinding charged towards the source, his tail brandishing like a flag of triumph behind him. Their opposition -- the hunters -- were expecting the presence of one werewolf, and were certainly prepared for it. They would not, however, anticipate the presence of two.

Siah trailed after Sinding, but crept low against the brush, and waited for him to engage. 

She heard him snarl viciously, followed by cries of anger and fear from the hunters. He had downed two of them before a third managed to swing an axe in his direction. Siah sprang forward then, reveling in the final look of surprise upon her prey just before her jaws found purchase around the hunter's shoulder, stopping the arc of the axe just shy of Sinding's fur. 

It was time for the hunt to begin in earnest.


	2. Chapter 2

Siah ambled over the pass into Whiterun hold, enjoying the breeze of the summertide night as it ruffled through her fur. She carried a twisted, bleeding moose haunch in her jaws, hoping that the scent of the fresh kill would assist in attracting the attention of her absentee pack-mate.

She'd spent the better part of the past two weeks combing Falkreath for the other werewolf. All of their usual meeting spots had turned up empty, and any traces of his scent she'd managed to track were severely dated. Each passing day of absence had caused a familiar tendril of dread to coil beside her heart; it was one of those unpleasant sorts of things that she did not want to examine too closely, but when she did, she only briefly managed to identify it as an aching sense of loneliness before pointedly ignoring it again.

As a desperate, final attempt to locate the other wolf, Siah was on her way to the hidden grotto where Hircine's hunt had forged the pair of them together as pack-mates. It had been a trial by fire, as it were, but they had survived and their attackers had not.

The location exhibited a sentimental pull upon the Bosmer. A strange instinct guided her, perhaps calling to the wolf from the night of the Bloodmoon, and she prayed Sinding felt likewise. She surmised that if he wouldn't turn up there, then she wasn't likely to see him ever again.

She deposited the reeking limb along the trail leading up to the cave's entrance. The flesh hit the dirt rather unceremoniously, and Siah seated herself just beside it. When it was apparent that Sinding was not immediately going to appear from out of the cave, she began to lick the blood from her claws in anxious idleness. 

She waited. The pungent scent of raw meat was evidently not enough to attract the attention of even minor predators, and Siah found this unnerving. Impatiently, she rose to her feet again, shifting her weight and gathering her breath.

The Bosmeri werewolf howled dolefully, hoping the sound would carry far across the hold. If Sinding was anywhere out on the tundras, he would surely hear her calling for him.

She paused for a long moment after her summon, listening carefully for a response -- any response at all.

Nothing answered.

Siah paced, allowing her nerves to get the better of her. The wolf did not tolerate kindly to any sort of emotional distress -- patience and composure were well beyond the mer's grasp in this form. Odds were that Sinding was long gone from Skyrim, if he were even still alive. He'd had a bounty on his head for some time, after all. Siah felt childishly naive for believing, even for a moment, that the pair might've been able to live together in the wilds of Falkreath. 

She wasn't sure which outcome would be worse -- that something horrible had managed to kill her companion, or that her company was so insufferable that he had chosen to abandon her entirely. She could not bear to entertain either thought for long. 

Something moved on the horizon. Siah fixed her attention towards it, scenting the air for information, but it was of no use -- she was upwind of whatever it was. She stood her ground, beginning to wag her tail hesitantly. Her pulse drummed in her ears. It had to be Sinding. 

It wasn't. 

It was another werewolf, for certain, but it was not Sinding; it was a larger, graying male, blind in one eye and charging right for her without an inkling of hesitation. He leapt, and was upon her in a heartbeat.

Instinct took over Siah's sense of judgement -- the wolf wanted to preserve itself just as much as the host it inhabited. She allowed the attacker to strike her backwards, but kept rolling underneath him. The whites of his fangs flashed past her face. She saw an opportunity and kicked her hind legs upward, into his ribs, as hard as she could muster; the momentum continued and carried the graying wolf over her head. He landed hard on the flat of his back, and the she-wolf rolled to right herself before he could lunge for her again.

Siah made the split-second decision to run for her life. She wasn't a particularly powerful wolf, but she was fast -- Hircine had granted her that much -- and she had enough of a head start that she could feasibly outrun her attacker. 

She did not get very far before another wolf darted out in front of her and blocked her intended path of escape. The second stranger was a slender, russet she-wolf -- her lip was curled and her hackles were raised in threat. Siah tried to feint around her, but the other wolf mirrored her movements, forcing her to come skidding to a stop. 

Siah tucked her tail, locking eyes with the darker she-wolf for a fleeting instant before the graying male caught up to her again. His jaws clamped her by the ruff, his breath hot and acrid against the fineness of her hide. He twisted her ruthlessly by the nape and dragged her to the ground.

Siah yowled, whining and whimpering for mercy even as the gray wolf kept her pinned. She writhed, waiting for the other she-wolf to make a killing blow, but it never landed. Instead, the darker wolf snarled; it was a sharp, commanding note, and the gray loosened his grip on Siah's neck.

Foolishly, the mer made another break for it, but time and adrenaline had ebbed away the wolf's strength. Siah forcibly reverted, doubling over and crumpling upon the hillside after a mere few paces. The beast left her, bleeding away until her claws became fingers and she was again just a small, cold thing, huddling alone against the darkness. She cowered from her place on the ground, raising a hand defensively to show deference to the other wolves.

"Forgive me! I was unaware that this territory was occupied. Please, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to trespass," Siah attempted, her speech rapid and borderline inarticulate. 

Her pleas fell on deaf ears, as far as the gray was concerned. He made towards the mer again with bared teeth and a wicked hunger in his good eye. 

The reddish wolf checked him with a sharp nip against his shoulder and he turned, his posturing conveying offense. He heeded her, however, and let Siah alone. He stalked away, and, evidently not wanting to leave empty-handed, proceeded to help himself to the moose haunch intended for Sinding. 

The Bosmer opened her mouth to protest, but wisely hesitated, and the gray disappeared into the wilderness carrying the bleeding tangle of flesh for himself. 

The dismay must've shown on the mer's face, because the red wolf looked upon her with a pitying softness before kneeling. The stranger folded, shuddering and contracting, and became something less lupine. When she stood upright again, Siah saw that she was a Nord, fair-skinned and keen-eyed even with the distance between them.

"I'm supposing you were expecting someone else," the woman said, casting a quick glance towards the dirt hollow where Siah had placed the meat offering. "One doesn't howl like that if they're trying to lay low."

"I was, yes," Siah replied. "I only ventured this far north looking for him in the first place. Again, I'm very sorry. I didn't know this was your territory."

"You're forgiven. We suspected you might have been feral, but I can see that that clearly isn't the case."

"Feral?" Siah asked. She thought of Sinding, and how he spent his time as a man counting down the hours until he could turn again, measuring out his life in broken fragments between hunts rather than enjoying the comforts of his humanity in the meantime.

"It's a term we use to describe those who can no longer shift back into their original forms. The beast and the man become one and the same." The Nord fixed her with an impassive stare. "Who were you looking for?"

"My..." Siah wasn't exactly sure what Sinding was to her; she had difficulty assigning words to her feelings for him. "My hunting companion," she said finally, settling for a more simplistic phrasing. "I think he's gone from Falkreath. I don't know where he went. Our usual meeting places are vacant and the scents are cold, so I wanted to try looking here. We endured Hircine's hunt, together, in the ruins on the other side of that cave."

Siah pointed towards the entrance of the grotto, and the woman followed the gesture with her eyes, her brow quirked with curiosity.

"You survived the Bloodmoon." It was a flat statement rather than a question, but still, she sounded surprised. Siah didn't blame her. 

"Yes, but only because of my friend," the Bosmer explained. "I usually stay near the civilized areas. I hunted out of Falkreath for a time, staying at the inn and selling furs for supplies, and he kept to the wilds. He held the territory for the both of us, really." 

"So, you're civil enough to live amongst the common folk, yet strong enough to survive a Bloodmoon. And now, you're alone." 

Siah wasn't sure what the Nord was implying, nor did she particularly enjoy the woman's unnecessarily grave intonation.

"Yes, that is correct," Siah replied carefully.

"I would prefer it if we could keep eyes on you, whelp. Come to Whiterun when you can. Seek out Jorrvaskr. Speak with Kodlak Whitemane. He'll decide what we should do about you," the woman said with finality.

"All right," Siah agreed, feeling as though she had dodged a volley of poisoned arrows. "Thank you, I..." The mer realized she'd never given her name. "Forgive my manners. My name is Siah, of Greenheart. And you are?"

"Aela," the Nord replied curtly. "Now, if you don't mind, I must go find my Shield-Brother before trouble finds him." 

Siah deduced she was referring to the graying were that had run off with the moose haunch. The mer nodded, bowing politely. "Of course, Aela. Thank you. Again."

The Nord stalked away from the grotto's entrance without returning the Bosmer's smile.

"Stay out of trouble, whelp," she said, before disappearing into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

The doors of the mead hall were gnarled and resolute under Siah's hesitant fingers. She pressed through them anyway, standing tall and keeping her posturing polite.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimly lit interior, but her nose and ears were quickly overwhelmed by an abundance of sensory details. She scented the heat off of a crackling firepit -- the taste of long-burnt ashes stung at the back of her throat -- and she detected savory cuts of roasting meat that made her mouth water. She forgot herself momentarily, thinking only of the cavernous hunger in her stomach as she drew towards the smells of hot food. 

A sharp cry of anger brought her back to the present. Squinting to her left, she heard a squabble, smelling multiple humans and a single other mer. 

Some sort of altercation was taking place. Siah craned her neck, trying to make sense of the small crowd that had formed down on the stone flooring below, but someone's hand gripped her above the elbow and steered her away. The Bosmer recognized the stranger's scent even before she turned and met the Nord's eyes -- it was Aela.

"You're going down to see Kodlak right now. Do not speak to anyone else just yet," Aela said, keeping her timbre low and level. It was almost strange to see her wearing armor, and her face was streaked with paint meant to both camouflage and intimidate. It suited her, Siah thought, but she said nothing, and allowed the woman to walk her towards the far end of the hall.

Another Nord appeared at Siah's side as they made their way towards a stairwell. He moved with an uncanny, predatory silence despite the cumbersome mail he was wearing, and the mer flinched slightly upon noticing his one blind eye. It was the graying wolf. 

"Skjor," Aela acknowledged. 

"Sorry about the other night," he said, addressing Siah. "I was hunting, and hungry. You know how it is. It's nice to be able to meet you on more amicable terms."

The mer nodded, thin-lipped and flushed underneath her scarf. The cadence of Skjor's voice was more charming than it had any right to be -- but then, she remembered feeling his teeth around her nape like serrated steel, and she decided to remain just a little wary of him. Despite wanting to thank him for not snapping her neck, she preferred not to disobey Aela, so she politely averted her gaze without response. 

The two Companions escorted her down the stairway and through a set of sturdy, knotwork-embellished doors. Steering her to the right, they led her across the long hall and under an archway, beset by opened doors on either side. In the room at the end of the hall, two unfamiliar Nords were seated at a table. They appeared to be having some sort of personal dispute. The darker-haired Nord was attempting to garner advice from the more elderly one, but they simultaneously fell silent and looked up when Skjor and Aela led the Bosmer past the threshold.

Siah could smell the beast-blood within both of the strangers, and sudden comprehension dawned upon her. The Companions -- the fabled warriors of Skyrim's yore -- were werewolves. They were an entire pack unto themselves, somehow managing to hide in plain sight.

The realization spun heavily over her shoulders. Had Ysgramor and the original Companions carried the blood-curse to Tamriel? Was that the edge they'd had over the Falmer, when they'd driven them to extinction? If they hadn't been werewolves before, when did the faction acquire the affliction in such numbers?

"Kodlak," Aela began, addressing the elderly Nord. "This is the one I told you about. She sought us out, as I asked." 

He nodded solemnly, and Skjor and Aela stepped away from the Bosmer, leaving her feeling oddly exposed as she stood alone in the center of the room. 

The elderly man appraised her; his eyes were pale and rheumy, but they exuded a calm focus that the Bosmer was immediately inclined to respect. She straightened her sashes and carried herself with a more dignified poise.

"Greetings, serjo. It is an honor to stand here before you," Siah said with a curtsy, hoping that her show of deference would make for a decent first impression. 

The other Nord beside Kodlak simply stared, and Siah could almost see his hackles raising -- he was practically bristling at the presence of a stranger down in their den hall.

Kodlak shook his head. A patient look of disappointment crossed his face.

"We don't bother with formalities here," he said, and Siah felt her composure slip. No one seemed to notice, or care. Kodlak continued. "You from Morrowind, girl?"

"Yes, ser-" The Bosmer stopped herself and cleared her throat before trying again. "Yes. I was born in Valenwood, but I've more recently lived in southern Morrowind. I stayed there for over a decade." She deliberately omitted mention of her parents' association with the Thalmor, as well as her reasons for moving to Morrowind.

"What's with the face covering? We don't take too kindly to shady sneak-thief types around here," said the other Nord, interjecting.

Siah felt her face redden with heat and shame. She forced her explanation out and kept her stance polite despite her distress.

"I have scars, serjo." She didn't bother amending the mishap, this time. "I'm not fond of the way people stare." 

Kodlak sat back in his chair a little.

"In Jorrvaskr, we respect scars as a warrior's badge of honor. You'll find no judgement from the likes of us." He cast a chiding glance towards his dour, dark-haired subordinate before re-focusing on the Bosmer in front of him. "Is that how you came to acquire the blood?"

Siah blushed harder, were it even possible.

"No. The marks on my face are from a separate incident. I was bitten here, on my leg," she said, reaching down and tapping the calf-side of her left boot. "I have plenty of scars from that too, of course. It seems I am simply prone to disfiguring misfortune." 

"Aela tells me you had been hunting with another. Was he the one that turned you?" Kodlak's gaze lingered upon the mer's left leg for a moment.

"Oh, no, that wasn't his doing," Siah replied, suddenly feeling defensive on Sinding's behalf. "I was bitten about a year ago, somewhere in the wilds near Blacklight. That one... I don't know where he is, but I haven't seen or scented him since, thank the gods." 

"Near Blacklight?" Kodlak first exchanged a glance with the Nord beside him, who merely shook his head; he then turned a keenly intense gaze upon Aela, and then Skjor. 

"We haven't been that far east in awhile," Aela supplied. "But perhaps it's time Skjor and I ventured a patrol over that way." 

Kodlak nodded. "See to it that you do, but be cautious." He waved a gauntlet-clad hand as though to dismiss them. "And go sort out whatever is happening upstairs. It's far too early in the day for the whelps to be tearing each other apart already."

"Last I saw, Njada was thrashing Athis in a brawl. Again. But we'll set them straight," Skjor replied candidly. Aela sighed as though she'd rather not be involved, but then she nodded in agreement, and the pair of them disappeared back down the long hall. 

"So," Kodlak began, addressing Siah again. "Aela told me you survived the Bloodmoon. Enduring the will of Hircine is no small feat. And, given your... unique circumstances, it would seem that you possess the sufficient amount of restraint to live amongst townsfolk." He paused to lean forward a bit, fixing Siah with a stare that took all of her willpower not to waver under. "We still must test your mettle in combat, but if you succeed at that, would you join us? You will be expected to train, every day, with the rest of the whelps, but you'll have meals every night and a bed to call your own." 

Siah's mind turned with questions, and in a discomforting moment of self-awareness, she found herself balking at the idea of allying herself with a group of humans originally known for committing genocide upon other mer. 

Although, she pondered, she may as well, given that she was all but an embarrassment to her own kind. 

Her mother had done her very best, grooming her tediously in an attempt to integrate her into the Altmeri culture that now dominated her home province. She'd been rejected by the Dominion's standards, though, purportedly for having the audacity of behaving too much like a Bosmer -- she had been fond of archery, after all, and had inherited far more skill with the bow than with magic. After it became clear that she did not qualify for a life of lofty nobility amongst the Dominion, she'd been sent to live with Dunmeri friends of the family in Tear. Naturally, she'd eventually offended them, too -- it was out of fear of their wrath that she'd ended up in Skyrim. 

As for Meden... well. She'd failed him more than anyone else. Now that she was wolf, she was additionally a spite to Y'ffre, changing shape under the whims of the moons instead of honoring the decree of her patron deity.

All things considered, Siah decided she found little harm in associating with a bunch of lycanthropic Nords. 

"I agree to be tested for combat ability, yes. If I am able, I will gladly join your honored ranks. It would be nice to finally have a place where I might sleep safely at night," she replied after a pause.

"Very well," said Kodlak. "There is one more thing."

Siah looked at him with an expression of open curiosity. "Yes?"

"Only those of the Circle carry the blood. Myself, Skjor, Aela." He gestured to the man sitting across the table from him. "Vilkas, here, and his brother, Farkas. The other whelps know nothing of this secret, and we must keep it that way. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Siah replied, not needing to be told twice. "Of course. I would dare say I've only made it this far because of my inclination to keep such a thing entirely to myself, or to those who could smell it on me, and they themselves would be wolves then, too."

"Good," said Kodlak, rising to his feet. "Come then, let us go to the courtyard and see if you've got any knack for fighting."

They made their way back across the long hall and up the stairs, with Vilkas shadowing just behind them. Siah could feel his cold, pale eyes on the back of her neck. It was though he were daring her to set foot out of line, so that he might have the personal honor of dispatching her right then and there. Kodlak had mentioned him having a brother. Siah hoped that the other sibling would be less hostile towards her, but she wasn't holding her breath on the matter.

Once they reached the threshold of the ground level again, Siah immediately scented blood, just enough to be able to taste it on the back of her tongue. There wasn't much of it, but she still knew it keenly despite the obfuscating billow of smoke off the firepit. Aela and Skjor had indeed broken up the fight between the whelps, but it had evidently devolved into a fistfight proper before anyone intervened. She glimpsed a Nord woman in piecemeal hide armor, jeering and triumphant, being restrained at the arms by several men. One of them looked nearly identical to Vilkas, but was much brawnier, and had longer hair. His brother must be a twin, Siah realized. It was then that she saw the Dunmer, sitting up from the floor bearing an expression of pure spite, the flash of war paint that contoured his features secondary only to the smear of blood trailing from his nose. Her head turned, unbidden, her gaze honing upon the fresh blood that was the same stark red shade as his eyes -- and then she was being shown through the doors at the back of the hall, with Skjor and Aela accompanying them once more. 

They truly were taking every precaution with her. It was disconcerting to the Bosmer, being escorted around by this many trained warriors, treating her as though she posed a potential threat to them. Siah knew better, though. She was no match for any of them, even as a wolf, even one on one. She had only barely just survived Skjor and Aela, and that was because they had spared her. 

Once outside, Siah found herself at the top of a raised stone porch overlooking the sparring yard. Beyond the palisade, she could see the sprawl of the farmlands across the Whiterun tundra. All of it was so promising, so open. It made her want to turn, it made her want to run and chase and hunt. She didn't know how the others could stand it, hiding up here with their blood-secret. She imagined they had some means of slipping past the walls and out into the wilds unseen. 

Kodlak's voice snapped her back to present. He had asked what her weapon of preference was in combat or in hunting.

Siah ignored the dagger upon her belt and instead responded by adjusting her quiver and retrieving her bow from her pack. It was a brassy, weather-worn recurve, of resilient elven make. She had devised for it the name of "Flicker", but kept this information to herself, knowing the Nords would only mock her for it. 

"Of course she favors the bow. She's an elf," Vilkas sneered. She paid him no mind, instead eyeing three of the worn sparring targets from her place atop the steps. She took their distance from her into account. The approximate grade of their angle downhill from her was also swiftly and wordlessly noted.

The wind was mild that day, just barely teasing through her hair with a light breeze. It certainly wouldn't hinder her shots. The most disruptive thing about it was that it carried the scents of all these strangers directly into her face.

Siah strung her bow in silence. Despite her nerves, she was able to draw and fire thrice in the seamless Bosmeri method taught to her by her father. She hit each target with needle-fine precision. After riddling the targets within the span of mere seconds, she turned, seeing expressions in varying degrees of astonishment among the Nords watching her. Aela made a convincing show of looking unimpressed, but Siah could detect the rise in her heart rate; Skjor's eyebrows arched just a hair too far to be able to excuse his expression as one of polite interest. Vilkas' brow creased with further frustration, were it possible. Kodlak, however, retained his inscrutable, almost stone-carved forbearance. 

Others had begun to appear as if from the woodwork of the mead hall -- now that their fight had been broken up, their interest turned to the inspection of the newcomer in the training yard. Siah could not help but think that, if they thought her skill with the bow impressive, then they must have never met a Valenwood-bred archer before. Her talent was rather middling for a Bosmer.

"Not bad," Kodlak said, after Siah had retrieved her arrows from the targets. "But can you handle yourself in a melee? Be it with axe, hammer, mace, or blade, it matters not, but you must be able to stand your ground in a fight."

"I can wield smaller blades, yes," Siah replied. In truth, she preferred daggers, both for utilitarian purpose in hunting and as a last resort in a fight. She felt that reaching for her dagger, in this instance, would do nothing but cause insult, as they were associated with cutpurses and thieves. Instead, she exchanged her bow for a shortsword, borrowed from one of the various weapon racks lined upon the back wall. It was awkward and unwieldy in her hands, but less so than an axe or a longsword might be. 

"Vilkas!" Kodlak said suddenly, waving the other Nord forth into the yard. "Test her arm, would you? If she manages to connect a strike, she'll be running with us from now on."

"Gladly," Vilkas replied, seeming eager to rise to the occasion of putting the mer soundly in her place. He retrieved a greatsword from its scabbard in the weapon rack beneath the cover of the porch. It was a formidable looking weapon, almost as long as Siah was tall and inscribed with intricate knotwork patterns along the crossguard. The blade itself glinted, wicked and steely even in the shade between the colonnades. Siah saw the Nord's eyes sharpening with a similar, silvery sort of keenness as he stepped down into the yard, and she knew the weapon was well suited to him. 

She hoped she'd never have to face him in a real fight, and for a moment, she pitied anyone who found themselves on the business end of that claymore. Although, she supposed, she only ought to pity herself if that were the case. Every instinct within her, the wolf loudest of them all, inclined her to flee at the sight of the armed, mail-clad Nord approaching her. Instead, she gripped the hilt of her shortsword, and tried not to let any tremor betray her. She stood her ground as if willing vines to sprout from her ankles so they might root her more solidly to the spot. 

Vilkas stopped several paces shy of her. He shifted his weight to balance the greatsword into a more defensive stance, and waited. Siah hesitated.

"Come on, then. We haven't got all day," Vilkas growled. Siah decided that it was now or never, so she stepped towards him, trying to push her weight in opposition off of her back foot so that her strike might carry more power. 

He was moving almost before she swung for him, sweeping the greatsword up so that the blades caught, bringing the motion of her arm to a hard stop. From there, he reached across, swiftly plucking the sword from her hands by the hilt before tossing it aside, turning with the momentum to keep the point of his claymore fixed towards her. Her weapon landed with a clang, skidding away from her across the stone. Siah felt her face burn beneath the cover of her scarf; she was about to be thoroughly humiliated, and she knew it. Sheepishly, she walked past him to retrieve the shortsword from off the ground, and squared herself up before the Nord again.

She tried to hit him a second time, but again, he moved altogether too quickly for her, and with a flourish he wrested the blade from her hands with an upward sweep of the pommel. She feared she might break her wrist at this rate, so she paused for a moment to collect herself after he returned her sword to her.

Without a doubt, he was besting her soundly, but she sensed it wasn't as effortless for him as it ought to have been. There was an odd hesitance beneath the practiced fluidity of his movements -- Siah smelled the blood stirring within him and realized, all at once, that he was struggling. He must not have allowed himself to turn for some time. Whether it had been borne of lack of opportunity or intentional self-restraint, Siah could not be certain, but the symptoms were displaying just the same. The wolf was gnawing at him, trying to claw and tear its way hungrily into being. The Bosmer knew the feeling quite well, and considered that she might be able to use this to her advantage. She was a wolf, too, and she decided to remind him of it.

She held her next strike, instead letting her posture slink and lower to emulate that of the wolf's, staring him dead in the eye all the while. The Nord read her all too clearly and the wolf certainly did, as well; she saw him tense for a moment as he inwardly grappled with the need to turn. She noted the unfocusing behind his eyes, and saw her chance. 

She feinted, and then swung at him again. Preoccupied as he was, he parried just a heartbeat too late, and her second strike connected. The edge of the shortsword scraped briefly against the plate of his armor before he sidestepped, snatching the hilt from her hands to disarm her for a third time. Her sword clattered away across the yard again, but this time, a stillness came over the pair of them. She'd managed to land a hit and everyone had seen it.

Panting with exertion, Vilkas glared at her, still keeping the point of his blade angled in her direction as though contemplating murdering her on the spot. Siah knew she'd played him a bit, if only just a little. She'd studied him and taken advantage of his vulnerabilities, at least, if that could be considered unfair. 

Kodlak took several steps towards the yard, pausing at the top of the stairs. "Your name, girl. What was it, again?"

The Bosmer stood tall, ignoring Vilkas' quiet seething as she turned to meet Kodlak's gaze with as much mettle as she could muster.

"Siah of Greenheart, serjo." 

"Siah," Kodlak repeated, not bothering with the rest. "Welcome to the Companions."


End file.
